


In Memoriam

by ThePraxianWeasleyGeek



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Decepticons - Freeform, Gen, Genericons - Freeform, also doubting the Cause but that's why they're singing, singing and stuff pre-battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek/pseuds/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of genericons being flown to a battleground start doubting their significance in the war after a rookie's outburst - until one mech finds a way to remind them of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

The hush that fell over a shuttle as the battleground approached always sounded the same to an untrained audial. Such audials generally belonged to the newer warborns, who'd experienced maybe a handful of skirmishes and simulations to equip them with rudimentary experience.

That was if they were lucky. The unlucky ones weren't around any more to put that experience to use.

To a young near-newspark on their way to a first (and quite possibly last) major battle, it was an uneasy silence - interspersed with shuffling pedes and the nervous humming of internals - but there was nothing particularly distinctive about it. Older mechs could detect subtle nuances on the air, however: irregular, anxious tapping of digits against a gun, quiet enough to go almost unnoticed; or static catching in the throat of a rookie next to them as he tried to steady his intakes. Nobody spoke, but then nobody really wanted to be spoken to. There wasn't much point making friends that you'd likely lose within half a megacycle.

A few curious heads turned as one newbuild suddenly gasped and buried his helm in his servos. He continued to draw in deep, sharp breaths to cool his overworked processor, shuddering and trying to hide a slight whimper.

Panicking was nothing new to the few old-timers; they simply reshuffled to allow one of their number to sit next to the hyperventilating mech. The selected giver of comfort offered an arm round the shoulder but didn't force anything more, letting the rookie regain control a little first.

"What's the fragging _point_?" the younger mech groaned finally; responding to a slight shake of the arm over him by leaning his helm on his companion's shoulder. "I'm going out there to die, but for what? We haven't made any progress in vorns, so what's one slagging mech getting sacrificed gonna do to help? I'm gonna die for nothing!"

"That ain't a guarantee, kid," the mech beside him admonished with another shake. "This might not be the day you join the Allspark."

The only response he got to that was a withering look.

Everyone fell back into the typical unsettled hush after that, though concerned glances drifted over to the outspoken newspark from time to time.

One mech in particular was watching him rather closely, a slight frown creasing between his optics. He sat with one leg bent up, ankle resting on his other thigh - and after a while, he began to drum out a rhythm on the limb in question.

It was a slow, steady beat, quiet at first; but as those sitting near him turned to look he increased its volume until the clank of digits on plating could be heard throughout the cabin.

A tank sat a couple rows down began to stamp his pede in a simpler beat, providing a deep, echoing bass note to the first count of the other mech's rhythm.

There was a femme whose head had snapped up when the silence was first broken. Now, she switched from a quietly-tapped imitation of the pattern to a hum: low and resonant, it reverberated slightly in the walls of the shuttle. Another femme sitting next to her - presumably a friend - embellished this with a trio of notes. From her comrade's pitch to lower, and back up again, she conducted her own progress with a digit and shuttered optics. A half-smile lingered on her faceplates; one of fond remembrance.

Then the first mech, still drumming away, began to sing.

_"Well, I've never been to Iacon, or the Rust Sea  
'Cause Kaon's home enough for me,"_

His voice was raspy and didn't carry too far, but a slim mech with pitted armour straightened and picked up the slack.

_"Got no need for Crystal City's lights  
When gunfire keeps me up at night,"_

Now the tank added his voice, along with a bulky jet from halfway back across the shuttle.

_"Oh, from Tarn I'll never roam  
The mines are Sonic canyons all my own,"_

Soldiers were stirring all around the cabin by now, and more voices added themselves to the chorus, the sound swelling within the confined space and bouncing off the walls.

 _"And I'll never see the world in its glittering gold_  
Though it's broken and it's rusted some now, I'm told  
Cause when all's said and done, I'm a worker at spark  
And I think I always gotta be at home in the dark."

In the days before the war, when this song had been shared amongst groups of labourers in their scant downtime, 'worker' could have been replaced with anything from 'builder' to 'miner', depending on the function of participants. On the rare occasions where occupations mixed, however, this was the default, and was extended now as an attempt to include some of the younger warriors in its neutrality.

To really include them, the veterans could have opted for the gladiators' word: 'fighter'. And while they were all fighting for a cause that they felt spark-deep, masking the old meaning of the song felt wrong, somehow. They'd started out life as workers, no matter what they'd become - and they couldn't forget that.

The mech who'd comforted the rookie earlier dealt a light punch to his charge's shoulder as he joined in with gusto.

 _"Now here's some words that I thought I'd never say_  
But give me Blaster City over Praxus any day  
And Vos can keep their towers of glass  
I'm more at home in the home of my caste,"

And the other rookies were beginning to understand, now. These battle worn Decepticons, covered in scars and scrapes older than the newsparks themselves, were offering up their own histories. The goals of these first few rebels and rogues had been simple ones: they didn't want splendour, but simply recognition and rights - equality, in short. That was what they'd striven for, and what had driven them onto the battlefields in their hundreds. It was what still fuelled them in battle today.

There was more to this gift of theirs, though, that the newbuilds couldn't hope to grasp. The veterans were reaching out to each other as much as to their younger comrades. They'd seen their own fears in that mech's earlier outburst; fears that the Decepticon cause had become worthless, and that they were indeed fighting for naught.

Fears that after all they'd done for the Cause, nobody would remember their efforts should they fall today.

So they sang, and within the shared harmonies a message was carried: a reminder of sorts, of how far they had come. Time was when the fear of being forgotten had been ever-present; mechs died in the mines and the factories every day, and nobody spared their ghosts a second thought. Some of the older mechanisms were themselves guilty of forgetting a friend's name or face, and chalking them up to just another workplace accident. They felt a chilling sort of nostalgia as they sat side by side in the shuttle.

_We'll take your temples and we'll smash them into bits  
And worship the gladiators in their pits._

That line was unsettling in its own way, being a little too close to the truth for some of the soldiers' comfort. Some of them recalled rallies and speeches held in such pits; the thrill of the promise of change mingling with an ever-present world-weariness, hanging like mist over the crowds.

Just as the song reminded them of those times, so it served to mark their progress. Today, should any of them die - be they newbuild or battle scarred soldier - they would do so in the knowledge that they had travelled leagues from their beginnings, and not only in the literal sense.

None of them would face the prospect of being forgotten, either.

 _And we don't want the world in its glittering gold_  
_Cause it's broken and it's rusted and it's getting old_  
 _We've got ourselves a kingdom down here in the dark_  
 _And it's here among my friends that I will lay down my spark._

As the song drew to a close, a silent agreement passed between the assembled mechs: those who fell today _would_ be remembered, and the survivors would see to it. Because no matter how far the Decepticons had already come, they could always go further.

Ensuring recognition of a comrade's sacrifice was a small step, compared to the ones taken in the past. But it was still a step, and one that would never have been made had they not all risen up from the depths of the world so long ago.

Newbuilds and old soldiers alike joined to finish the song; those unfamiliar with the words adding to the stamping beat.

_Well, I've never been to Iacon or the Rust Sea  
Cause they said that Kaon was enough for me._

The singing and stomping subsided, but the sound did not. Instead, it transitioned into conversation as neighbours turned to talk to each other. Voices stayed low and there was little mirth in any of them, but silence was a thing of the past.

After all, it was easier to remember somebody if you got to know them first.

**Author's Note:**

> I do actually have a tune in mind for the song featured here (which I threw together in a couple of hours) - if anyone's interested in hearing it I may end up posting a recording on my tumblr.


End file.
